Scorched Turf

by Lilah Grey

  Scorched Turf

  Lilah Grey

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. James

  2. Corinne

  3. James

  4. Corinne

  5. James

  6. Corinne

  7. James

  8. James

  9. Corinne

  10. Corinne

  11. Corinne

  12. James

  13. Corinne

  14. Corinne

  15. James

  16. Corinne

  17. James

  18. Corinne

  19. James

  20. James

  21. Corinne

  22. Corinne

  23. James

  24. Corinne

  25. James

  26. Corinne

  27. James

  28. Corinne

  29. Corinne

  30. James

  31. James

  32. Corinne

  33. James

  34. Corinne

  35. Corinne

  36. Corinne

  37. Corinne

  38. James

  39. Corinne

  40. James

  41. Corinne

  42. James

  43. Corinne

  44. Corinne

  45. James

  46. Corinne

  47. James

  48. Corinne

  49. James

  Epilogue I

  Epilogue II

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Lilah Grey

  Prologue

  Corinne - Ten Years Ago

  “What a save!” My dad leapt to his feet as the rest of the crowd erupted in applause around us. “Did you see that, Cori?”

  “Yeah…” I sighed, my hand cradling my chin, my butt firmly planted on the metal bleacher. “Amazing.”

  Jesus could’ve descended from the heavens, nimbus and all, blocking the shot as seraphim sang out, and I’d probably have the same reaction. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy watching soccer; I loved it. But my love of soccer didn’t draw me to this game or every other Crawford High School Knights game for that matter.

  Something else—someone else, really—had my attention: Number Eleven. Heart-hammering, knee-trembling, mouth-watering, so-attractive-it-hurt-to-stare Number Eleven. He stood at the half-field line, kicking at clods of dirt and turf, looking bored. Gorgeously bored. I sucked in my bottom lip as he ran a hand through his messy, dirty blonde hair.

  “You know, Cori,” my dad whispered, his warm breath covering my neck, “I could put in a good word for you.”

  My face flushed beet red, and I let out deep, guttural noise that could’ve been mistaken for a camel mating call or a sow giving birth. The sound only a parent could draw out of their teenage daughter. I wanted to curl up in a ball of embarrassment and die.

  I pulled my knees up to my chin and gazed off into the distance, trying to pretend that my dad hadn’t caught me checking out a boy.

  Boy…

  Calling Number Eleven a boy was like calling the sun warm or Liam Hemsworth cute. Even though he was in high school, there was nothing boyish about his looks. He had a body like a Greek god and a face that made grown women weep at its beauty. I’d heard rumors that if you looked into his pale green eyes or dazzling smile long enough, your clothes would slip right off you without any knowledge of how it happened. Smirk-induced memory loss is a real thing.

  Some people were wise beyond their years, but Number Eleven was hot beyond his years.

  My dad reached over and rubbed my back in slow circles. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Cori.”

  I frowned at him, shaking my head as I turned my attention back to the field. Up until that point, I’d been careful not to gawk, looking only when it would seem natural. But once I saw him in that form-fitting uniform, I couldn’t help myself. When it came to Number Eleven, my self-control was limited.

  I sighed. “I know.” My dad always meant well.

  After a few moments of silence, he looked sidelong at me. “So what’s his name?” He was trying to hide the smile creeping on his face, but wasn’t doing a good job of it.

  Ugh.

  His phone rang, so thankfully, I didn’t have to respond.

  “It’s your mother.” Brow furrowed, narrowed eyes—he looked at his phone’s screen as though he were attempting to solve a difficult calculus problem. After a moment of hesitation, he sucked in a deep breath, exhaled, and then answered the call.

  “Hello, Nina.” The change in tone was immediate. It sounded more like he was speaking with a business associate than his wife.

  He stood up, sidled past the family seated next to us, and walked down the steps toward the field.

  Lately, things had been tense between them. I tried not to think about it and searched for Number Eleven instead. But my mood soured even more as I spotted him jogging off the field. The Knights were up 3-0, so they’d begun to substitute out their better players. Number Eleven disappeared behind a group of his teammates as they clapped him on his back, ruffling his hair as they celebrated their soon-to-be victory.

  I sighed, cradling my face as I looked back toward my dad. He was already on his way back. The short conversations were always the worst, and judging from the deep ridges forming on his brow, this one must’ve been especially bad.

  “Ready to leave?” he asked, standing over me.

  I wanted to protest but reminded myself that my reason for being here was sitting on the sideline. “Okay,” I said.

  He offered me his hand, and I grabbed it, following him down the steps and onto the grassy field. As we turned toward the car, I glanced over my shoulder for one last look at Number Eleven. My heart nearly stopped: he was looking right at me. His green eyes were locked on mine, and he was smiling. Oh my God was he smiling… at me?

  I shook my head and turned away. No. I was imagining it.

  By the time I had the courage to peek again, he’d been swallowed up by another mass of players and coaches. It was a silly thought. There’s no reason to believe that he’d single me out of a crowd.

  “You alright, Cori?” my dad asked. “You seem a little… glum.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, forcing a smile.

  “I’m sorry about leaving early, but your mother—” He paused for a moment, contemplating his next words, and then shook his head. “Never mind that.”

  We continued walking at our slow clip, but once we were nearly at our car, my dad broke the silence.

  “So… I stumbled upon some tickets last week,” he said casually. “Do you know anyone who’d like to go to a Philadelphia Blazers game next month?”

  I stopped, gaping at him as a goofy grin spread across his lips. The Blazers were my favorite women’s soccer team, and I’d only ever seen them play on TV. Watching them… in person?! Of course I wanted to go, but I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything aside from a garbled, throaty noise that forced a chuckle from my dad.

  “Well, it’s on a Wednesday, so you’re going to have to miss a day of school. And I know how much you enjoy school.” He winked at me. “Do you think you could manage?”

  I laughed. “I think I’ll be okay.” My entire body vibrated with excitement, and I skipped the rest of the way back to the car.

  “I love you, Cori,” my dad said, smiling at me as he started the car.

  “I love you, too.”

  Over the next few weeks, the Blazers game was the only thing I could think about. My English teacher called home one day to voice her concerns about my lack of preparation and concentration in class. I didn’t care though. Not even my mother’s subsequent lecture had an effect on me. I was going to see the Philadelphia Blazers play with my favorite person in the w
orld, and that’s all that mattered.

  But we never made it to the game.

  Two days before the game, a janitor found my dad slumped over on his desk during his morning rounds. He had called an ambulance, but it was too late. There was nothing that could’ve been done to revive him. He was gone. The doctor said it was a stress-induced heart attack. He listed all the possible reasons for how it could have happened as though it would mean something to me, as though it would bring me some sort of comfort.

  It didn’t.

  I lost my best friend that day, and nothing can ever change that.

  1

  James

  What the fuck happened last night?

  I tried to piece together my fragmented memories, but between my throbbing headache and sour, roiling stomach, I came up empty. My phone buzzed, and I groaned, pulling a pillow over my head in an attempt to block out the noise.

  There was movement next to me. A light moan. I turned, peeking out from under the pillow.

  I don’t remember…

  But then it hit me. Flashes of last night. Bourbon. Lots of it. Mistakes…

  I hadn’t intended to take the girl home. My eyes were on her friend, a gorgeous brunette with killer curves and bright eyes. This one had surprised me. She cornered me outside the bathrooms, dragging me into a storage closet. Mops, buckets, and cleaning supplies crashed to the floor as we fucked.

  I admired her initiative.

  A wave of nausea flashed through me as I rolled over and grabbed my phone. Missed calls, voicemails, and texts.

  Jack: Where the fuck are you?

  What did it matter? I wasn’t interested in another one of Jack’s lectures, so I set the phone back down and slumped against the headboard.

  I met Jack shortly after I turned nineteen, back when I was a newcomer to the professional soccer scene in Europe. He was the level-headed, no-bullshit voice of reason that kept me grounded during those first few years. Even though he was only a few years older than me, he was my first real mentor.

  Fame, money, unchecked egos—there’s a number of reasons why some rookies never made it past their first few seasons. Without Jack’s guidance, I might’ve become one of them.

  “It’s a slow burn,” he’d told me in his Irish lilt, stroking the auburn stubble on his jaw. “By the time you notice, it’s too late. Stay disciplined. Stay smart. Don’t let fame go to your head, and you’ll be fine. The only person that can set you off course is yourself.”

  When American teams started throwing their money around, begging me to leave the Euro League, I brought Jack with me. Me and him—we were a package deal.

  It paid off in spades. We won the championship our first year with the New York Stars. Money and fame—I had it all. Life was good.

  Life is good.

  The girl groaned and turned over next to me, legs tangled in the sheets, bare skin partially covered. I considered peeling back the covers, gliding my hands along her smooth, creamy skin, but I knew where it would lead.

  We’d fuck and then fall asleep, arms and legs entwined, exhausted but satisfied. By the time we both woke up, half the day would be gone. She’d be thinking about how lucky she was to spend a lazy day with me. But in reality, I hadn’t found an opening to send her on her way without seeming like the complete asshole she’d make me out to be.

  She knew the deal; they all did. I’m always upfront and clear about it: one night, no strings attached. But that never stopped any of them from thinking otherwise. They’re different, special even, and once I spent enough time with them, I’d be able to see that.

  Maybe it’s true. Maybe if I spent enough time with one of them, learned what made them tick, their fears and dreams and aspirations, all those little habits and quirks that make up a person, I might find myself actually liking one of them. There’s always the possibility, but I’ll never stick around long enough to find out. I’m twenty-eight, in the prime of my life, and with so many gorgeous women at my fingertips, I’m not about to settle down.

  After I showered, shaved, and dressed, I sat back down on the bed. “Hey,” I whispered, pushing the matted hair off the girl’s cheek. Black rings of smeared makeup circled her eyes.

  She groaned, twisting her torso as she stretched her arms under the pillow. Her perfume, sweet and citrusy, still hung in the air. She flipped over, her breasts spilling out from under the sheets.

  “Hi.” Her voice was low and husky, and her eyes widened, mimicking the smile on her face.

  “I hate to do this, but I’ve got to run. Practice.”

  It wasn’t a complete lie, just a small bending of the truth. I had practice… a few hours ago. It dawned on me while I was in the shower.

  She dragged her fingertips along my neck, down my chest. “Couldn’t you put it off? Just this once. For me?” she cooed, her voice as sweet and delicate as honey. She braided her fingers in my hair, planting kisses along my chest, shoulder, and up my neck. She was good, practiced even. It almost worked.

  I grabbed her hand and kissed her fingertips. “Sorry, babe.”

  The softness in her eyes retreated as reality began to set in. Yes, this was a one-time deal, and no, it wouldn’t lead to anything.

  She fell back against the headboard and lay there, staring absently at my chest. “You don’t even remember my name, do you?”

  The sweetness in her voice had all but vanished. A few months ago, it might’ve affected me, but not now. No, this was part of the same old routine.

  “Sure I do…” I said, filtering through all the possibilities until finally deciding that even if I did guess her name by some miracle, it wouldn’t matter anyway. “Kate?”

  She ripped the comforter out from under me and wrapped it around herself before searching for her dress. “It’s Emma.”

  It was comical, if a little sad, watching as she stormed around the room like a hurricane, collecting her belongings.

  “I think they might be under—”

  “I can do this myself.” Her cheeks flushed as she glared at me.

  By all means…

  I closed my eyes, contemplating my lunch options as she flounced around the room, making more noise than necessary, so I knew that she wasn’t happy with me. As soon as I narrowed my options down to Thai or Mexican, my phone rang.

  I checked the name, expecting Jack but finding Dave Granger instead. Coach. A sick feeling rose in my stomach, but I ignored it. If he was pissed, I could smooth things over. Besides, it was only the preseason—so what if I missed a few practices? …Or all of them? Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember the last time I went to practice.

  Emma had just finished shimmying into her tight black dress I vaguely recall slipping off her the night before. She scowled at me as she strapped her feet into her heels.

  “Do you need money for a cab?”

  Without skipping a beat, she stormed out of the room. A few seconds later the bed shook from the front door slamming. It was a surprisingly tame departure compared to some more recent ones.

  My phone beeped, letting me know I had another voicemail.

  Let’s get this over with.

  “James,” Coach Granger began in an aggravated tone. He paused for a moment, letting out a sigh before continuing in his usual calm and composed tone. “We need to make a few changes around here. Figure out what’s best for the team. I need you in my office. Three o’clock. Three o’clock, James. Can you do that for me? Can you fit me into your busy schedule?”

  Another pause. Another sigh.

  “Look. I would’ve taken a different route here, but it’s out of my control. Management’s involved. Harvey’s involved.” My gut clenched. Harvey, our general manager, rarely took an active role with the team unless there was some way for him to get in front of a camera.

  Coach Granger muffled the phone, but I could hear someone yelling in the background. “Three o’clock. Be on time.”

  The voicemail ended abruptly.

  I tried to swallow, but my mouth
was dry.

  Changes. What’s good for the team…

  My head was pounding, and Jack’s face flashed in my mind again.

  The only person that can set you off course is yourself.

  2

  Corinne

  It was late summer in Philadelphia; hot and muggy, the air was almost too thick to breathe. A light but infrequent breeze swept through the field from the west, offering a brief respite from the sticky air. Unfortunately, the unpleasant smells of the dairy farms at the edge of campus came with it.

  The sun was beginning to rise beyond the tree line that flanked the practice field, bathing everything in a rosy light. I had a half hour more to myself before the men’s team would filter onto the field for practice, and I’d have to leave.

  My calves ached and my quads burned from the many hill sprints and plyometric drills I’d finished. I didn’t mind the discomfort of aching muscles. It signaled that I was working hard and that I was on the right track. I needed to get back on track after last season.

  The dew on the grass was cold against my bare thighs as I replaced my running shoes with soccer cleats. I drew the laces taut, leather cracking and straining. It was a familiar, oddly comforting sound, and with nothing around me but open field, it was all I could hear.

  As I stood, a sharp, stabbing pain behind my right knee shot through me. I sucked in a quick breath as my teeth scraped against my bottom lip. The pain killers were beginning to wear off. I tried adjusting my knee wrap, but the pain flared again with more intensity, forcing my legs to buckle underneath me.

  Silent tears forced their way out my tight-closed eyes as I tried to block out the pain. I’m pushing myself too hard, too soon. Another part of me piped in: You’re weak. If you can’t manage a little pain, why bother? Just give up.

  I tore my ACL last year. It was the second round of the Women’s NCAA Tournament—the first time that our university made it past the opening round. I played recklessly. The events of what happened earlier in the day were still fresh in my mind; they flashed relentlessly in my head throughout the game. I still blame myself for the loss.